


all is fair in love and war

by requin_renard



Category: Tintin - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Character Death, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Original Character(s), Nihilism, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Post-World War II, Two Shot, quite intense in parts, they're bitter and argue a bit, they're not lovers just queer platonic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-12 12:55:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28760646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/requin_renard/pseuds/requin_renard
Summary: It’s 1945 – a shell-shocked Tintin struggles facing his return home to Moulinsart after serving as a war correspondent. Haddock is dying and needs to sort things out before its too late. Sometimes the conversations with the ones you love are the hardest to have.“Do you see me now? How I really am?” Haddock asked in a low voice. “I was always like this, really, you just thought too much of me. That moment, out there in space, that’s the closest you ever got to seeing the real man. You never saw the sad old wreck underneath, always tempted to end it all.”“I don’t see one now,” the other replied. “I see a man who loved his friends far too fiercely for his own good.”
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	1. part 1.

**Author's Note:**

> this is set in 1945, a few months after the end of world war II - tintin is in his early 30s, haddock in his late 50s. they're not actually romantically together, there's just a vibe that they both know they could have been lovers once but the moment passed and now they just have a very intense queer platonic relationship. see end of piece for more notes.
> 
> also i hope you like margie she's a v. minor oc but i had a lot of fun with her as the new nestor. :~)

The wheels of the motorcycle crunched up the gravel drive, puttering to a quiet stop at the foot of the regal sandstone staircase. The châteaux stood like a silent king in the grounds, imposing and strangely unfamiliar to the rider. The figure cut the engine, pulled off his helmet and remained straddling the bike for a moment, his breath the only sound shattering the silence of the estate. The birds in the trees seemed muted, the rustle of leaves dampened. He swallowed nervously and tapped his fingers on the helmet, thinking. He didn’t have much longer to stay lurking here. Someone in Moulinsart would have heard his approach. Before, there would have been the patter of four furry feet bounding upwards, quickly followed by his own eager legs. Instead, a hollow silence seemed to engulf him.

He eventually brought motion into his body and shouldered the large duffel bag he had strapped on the back of the bike. The climb seemed to take him hours; with every stair climbed it seemed as if Moulinsart moved further from him. There was a cold uncomfortable knot in the pit of his stomach and his mouth was drier than sandpaper. He repeatedly swallowed and tried to wipe the dryness from his lips with the back of his hand. He caught sight of his watch; bang on half eleven. He was so inherently punctual. He wished there had been a traffic jam in the city or a tractor on the roads causing a back log. Lateness was never his style but for once he wished it was. The truth was, he really wasn’t ready to be there.

The war had been over for several months now. Since then, he had simply floated, cast back into the free world he had so missed, writing this and reporting on that but never quite feeling normal. There was an irrevocable hole deep inside him from the past six years. The light and spark that had so defined his every action had been squeezed out of him.  
He and the Captain had exchanged letters all haphazardly throughout, sometimes weeks passing before either heard a word from the other. He often found it hard to sit down and write a collected reply when he often felt he was coming apart at the seams.  
The Captain however, did a much better job. There were hours spent squatting in shelters and derelict buildings and make shift bases, clutching the handwritten letters up to the light and reading them over and over, trying to grasp a hold of the warmth of his earlier years to keep his soul from freezing. He didn’t want to bring the hole that had caved in inside him back to Moulinsart. He wasn’t ready to make everything real.  
When the news first came through that the boy wonder had been drafted as a war correspondent, the Captain had openly cried in front of him. He had felt nonplussed himself, back then, viewing it all as another great adventure. He had barely been alive for the Great War. He supposed he hadn’t seen anything quite like it, and so didn’t fear it, though he’d looked death squarely in the eye many times before. He put his arms solidly around his closest friend who clung onto him so desperately.  
“You weren’t made for this. You’re far too good.” The Captain had warned. He had stood there, aghast, rubbing his friend’s shoulders and promised he’d behave himself, stay out of danger best he could and entrusted the care of his beloved canine to the sailor.  
At first their paper exchanges were joyful. The boy chose carefully what to say and what not to say. He told his friend of the excitement of it all, the dynamic way of life, the kindness and good humour of all his fellow reporters. The Captain would in return send pages of expected grovelling and misering, about the dog getting up to mischief, the butler being irritating and the professor sending him round the bend. The boy would sit laughing to himself as he read, his heart aching for the comforts of the rag tag bunch of individuals he called his family as his mind was whisked away from the suffering and destruction that surrounded him.  
How long had he spent wishing to be back in this very same spot? And here he now was, sick to his stomach and wishing he could be anywhere else.

He waited at the grand front doors, knuckles raised to knock but seemingly unable to. His heart was hammering, stomach churning and flipping over and over. For an awful moment he thought he was going to be sick. As he closed his eyes and nervously inhaled and exhaled, waiting for the nausea to pass, the front doors were flung open.  
“Monsieur! It’s you!” a voice cried. It was shrill, a woman’s voice. He very quickly opened his eyes in confusion. He was met with a face he had never seen before. A very plump, broad woman with a face so rosy he was afraid she was about to combust and a mop of curling brown hair that sprung out of her head like pampas grass. He smiled at her dazedly.  
“I’m sorry, I don’t-”  
“Oh! Oh, he hasn’t told you has he? That sneaky old so-and so!” she exclaimed. She squeezed his arm warmly, pulling him towards her. “Come in! Come in! I’ve been so excited to meet you!”  
He allowed himself to be wrestled inside. Once she had stopped fussing, he tried to speak again.  
“I don’t believe he has, Madame,” he said rather dazedly. “I was expecting Nestor, you see.”  
The woman eyed him sadly.  
“I’m sorry, dear Mr Nestor passed away last year,” she bowed her head. “He was happy and comfortable until the end though, the Captain made sure of that.”  
There was a pang in his stomach. Nestor too? He supposed he could have been regarded as ‘elderly’ nearly fifteen years before. How many more of the faces of his younger self had gone forever? The momentary pain must have slipped onto his face because the woman patted his shoulder gently.  
“He was sad that he did not see you come home,” she said softly. “But he was very proud. We all are.”  
Why hadn’t the Captain told him?  
He hastily smoothed his frown and managed a small smile. “Ah, thank you, Madame…?” he hesitated, hoping to prompt the woman to introduce herself properly.  
“Oh!” she let out a shrill laugh. “I am such a scatterbrain! Marguerite Bisset – Captain Haddock took me on as a housekeeper when Mr Nestor started to struggle with his daily duties.” she dipped in a laboured curtsey. “I’m afraid I’m rather bad at being seen and not heard, but we manage.”  
“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Madame Bisset,” he said warmly and kissed her cheeks. He only realised they had been conversing entirely in French when a voice from down the hall interrupted them.  
“Margie!” it called. “I can hear you both twittering away down there and I can’t understand a blistering thing. Thundering typhoons, I’m not getting any younger. Send him in here!”  
Oh that voice; so unapologetically gruff with the lilt of a Scottish accent. His stomach flipped again. It had been six years. It had been centuries.  
He suddenly felt the guilt burning, of those months spent wondering Europe, writing freelance where he could, procrastinating his return to Brussels. The home he had missed was frightful to him now. He felt as if he would taint it all with his new self. He had planned on waiting as long as he could to return to Moulinsart so as to put off the reunion until he felt he could bear it. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to see any of them, he loved them so; he hated the person he had become. He couldn’t face coming back so different, to disappoint them when they found out that their cheerful golden boy had grown up into a rather solemn, troubled young man. He’d sent back so many excuses. _Got caught up chasing a lead! Should be home in a few months_ or _Wow! I ended up in Switzerland tailing some villains – don’t worry, won’t be too long now._ He’d fed his captain so many lies of more daring adventures – the reality had been a numb glide across war torn Europe, a detached observer of oblivion, spinning out his time until he felt like he deserved to go back.  
Then the telegram had arrived. He knew it was serious, because instead of being some mindless cheerful banter addressed To TT, and sent from CH, it read:

AUGUSTIN PLEASE COME HOME STOP. LIVER IS STARTING TO BITE THE DUST STOP. GOT THINGS TO SORT OUT STOP. - ARCHIBALD.

That had sent him into a tailspin of guilt and he had packed up the remaining possessions he had kept through the war, bought a cheap motorcycle, swiftly sent a telegram back and set off. The day’s drive had allowed him to rearrange his skittering brain and compose himself into the well-kept young person he missed being.

“Margie!” the voice called again. The tone had become even sharper and Bisset flushed in exasperation.  
“Alright, alright!” she called back and shook her fist. She looked expectantly at the young man and jerked her head towards the room at the end of the front hall. “Go on through!” she whispered. “You’re all he’s talked about these past days!”  
He swallowed nervously, dropping his duffel bag in the hall. He ran a hand through his hair, playing with the tuft at the front, and smoothed out his clothes. He was trembling. He was scared as to what he would find in that room, but he had missed that chiding voice so much. He began to walk very slowly down the hall, his breath coming out in shudders.

There he was, his Captain, settled neatly in an armchair and covered with a tartan blanket.  
He was lined, haggard, his skin tinged yellow with jaundice. His beard was flecked with wiry grey, his nose red with drink. His big dark eyes were wet and warm and so full of love as he looked over to the door. His hands fumbled with the glass and it dropped to the floor, splashing ice onto the hearth. He shook like a leaf.  
“Oh, Tintin,” he breathed. The young man in the doorway lost any composure he’d held onto at the sound of his name in the other man’s mouth. He let out a choked gasp and stumbled into the room. The Captain opened his arms from his chair and the younger man fell into them, tears streaming down his face.  
“It’s alright, lad. I’ve got you now,” he murmured softly. “You’re safe and sound here.”  
Tintin hadn’t cried at all during the war – there were far too many atrocities for him to even comprehend properly. He would have wept himself dry within days if he’d shed tears for every cruelty he’d witnessed. Things instead washed over him and deep into the recess of his mind.  
Now, he wept tirelessly for the people he had lost, for the time he had wasted away from Moulinsart. He cried for the fact that they both knew Haddock was nearing the end of his days but neither wanted to acknowledge it properly. He felt he was far too old to be behaving like this but the Captain didn’t seem to care. He just held him tightly, rubbing his back.  
Bisset had the good grace to stay out of the room until he had dried his eyes. He was perched on the arm of Haddock’s chair, seemingly recovered, blowing into his handkerchief and laughing weakly at a wisecrack from the sailor when she appeared with a knowing smile but tactful air and asked politely if anyone wanted some tea.  
“And bring a glass of something strong for him,” Haddock had muttered as she departed. Tintin did not complain. He necked the shot of whisky with uncharacteristic ease but declined another and Haddock was pleased to see the colour bloom back into his cheeks.  
Then they sat in their two familiar armchairs, the fire roaring, and talked. And talked. And laughed and joked and talked some more, stories spilling out of them. The hands of the clock spun round and round without their notice. Tintin spoke a little about the past years but was more interested in what at had been going on at Moulinsart. He felt his chest fill with warmth as he heard of the mishaps and chaos that had carried on behind his back. Calculus was still very much involved with several backfiring inventions. His latest experiment, some sort of underwater transmitter, had won an award.  
“Cuthbert is away this week at a conference for it,” Haddock explained. “But he’ll be back by Sunday.”  
“And how is the fellow these days?”  
“Oh, like all of us, ticking on,” the older man gave a dry wink and chuckled. “He was sad to have missed your arrival but he’s beyond excited see you. Me and Margie nearly had to shove him into the taxi ourselves, he was so reluctant to leave! I knew you wouldn’t mind.”  
“Of course not,” Tintin smiled. “I wouldn’t want anyone to skip out on something like that for me.”  
Bisset brought them some soup and rolls. They’d both declined a formal evening meal at the table and so she left the tray the side table.  
“Bless your heart, Margie,” Haddock’s eyes crinkled. “You’re good to this old sea dog.”  
“Oh shush,” the woman blushed and fussed around him, tucking the blanket around his legs, stoking the fire and insisting on plumping all the cushions. “Now is that everything?” she asked and then turned to Tintin. “I’ve made up your bed in your old room. This sentimental fool left just as it was the day you went, so I was told.”  
Haddock flushed a little embarrassedly. “Well, I didn’t want to go poking around in someone’s private matters, did I? You make it sound like I erected a shrine.”  
“Didn’t you?” she gave him a wry wink before turning back to the younger. “Just you wait until you see the study, Monsieur. It’s a sight to behold.”  
“Oh really?” Tintin raised a good natured eyebrow. “And please, Madame Bisset, just call me Tintin – everyone does.”  
“As you wish, Tintin, if you agree to call me Margie,” Bisset grinned and dipped into another heavy curtsey. “Well, Haddock, if you are quite comfortable, I shall take my leave,” she turned to the door. “Bonne nuit.”  
“Bonne nuit, Margie.” “Evening, Margie,” Haddock nodded to her fondly as she left and closed the doors softly behind her.

He then turned to his companion opposite. “That woman has an attitude to rival me at times but by God, she keeps this place running like clockwork.”  
“She seems very agreeable,” Tintin nodded. “Though I wish you’d told me Nestor had passed…” He cleared his throat awkwardly before fixing his friend with a hard stare. Haddock shifted in his seat. Tintin recognised the gesture.  
“I was just tired of sending you bad news, lad.” the Captain started. “First Dupont, then our dear Milou. I was sure you faced enough of it. I didn’t want to upset you, so I thought I’d just let you know when I saw you. Whenever that would be.”  
“And what about the telegram?” he replied quietly. “How long have you kept that from me?”  
The Captain shifted uncomfortably again. He reached for the glass of tonic water he kept beside him. He was off the drink now, for good, he proudly relayed. Tintin congratulated him wholeheartedly but the sailor felt the burn of his eyes as the younger man scanned the yellowing of his skin. Too little too late, he felt the words hanging in the air.  
“I...” he swallowed. “It’s been some months,” he replied earnestly.  
“And when did you stop drinking?” Tintin asked. The Captain shuffled awkwardly again, rubbing at his beard.  
“...” he made a sighing noise.  
“Please don’t lie to me, Captain,” the younger man said. His brow furrowed lightly. “I won’t pretend that I haven’t sought the comfort of the bottom of a glass once or twice these past few years, but never like you used to.”  
The older man cleared his throat. “Can’t we talk about this another time, lad?” he tried brightly. He fiddled with the tassels of his tartan blanket “Haven’t we got better things to discuss?” Tintin pursed his lips. He suspected the Captain had used it as a last ditch attempt of leverage to bring him back. It had worked.  
Haddock stared for a moment at this person before him. The smooth round face was more rugged, more wrinkled. His eyes were still bright, but harder and his hair, though still sticking up at the front, had deepened to a richer brownish auburn. The boyish freckles and flushed cheeks had sallowed, making him look older and more angular. This was still his lovely boy, but he could see the marks of war on his body and the changes that had happened behind those sharp blue eyes. It made him want to take his face in his hands and ask him where he’d gone.  
“Alright,” Tintin nodded. “Just for tonight. But I won’t have you leading me up the garden path,” he warned. “I know...” he fell silent and scratched at his brow. “I know that it’s serious. I know you – you wouldn’t have said a thing if you didn’t know it was serious.”  
“I said another time.” Haddock matched his companion’s stare. Tintin saw a glimpse of the man he had met that fateful night on the Karaboudjan; The raving, violent drunk who had strangled him in the desert during a fit of dehydration. The Celtic fire still burned in him. The younger man sat back in his chair, resigned.  
“Please, I don’t want us to fall out,” he said quietly. The Captain reached over and squeezed his forearm.  
“I could never fall out with you, boy,” he said. “Blistering barnacles, I would rather die than-” the words slipped out before he realised. He clapped a hand over his mouth and held back a snort in spite of himself. Tintin managed a wan smile.  
“Always so tactful, aren’t you?”  
“When Death becomes a friend, he encourages a good sense of humour.”  
They both knew then that the ice that had somehow formed between them was thawed. They drew their chairs closer and leant towards each other, speaking completely in confidence now they knew Bisset wouldn’t come bursting in at any moment.  
They talked about their lives apart in deeper levels than before – not just the war, but the lives they had lived in the pockets within it. Haddock had clapped him on the back with school boy’s hoot when Tintin revealed that yes, he had now finally experienced the fairer sex. He’d also been with men, which Haddock had not been so surprised at. The way he had followed that boy through the wilds of Tibet in search of Tchang had clearly shown him that the bond between the two was not solely platonic. He had also observed that in the eight years he had resided at Moulinsart with him, not once had Tintin brought a young woman home to meet him. He’d seen the way young ladies blushed when he passed them with a winning smile at the dozens of charity galas the pair had been invited to and always wondered why he had never jumped at the chance.  
“And what about you?” Tintin had asked, cheeks reddened from baring his deepest secrets. “Is there no Mrs Haddock strutting about?” The Captain did a poor job of holding in a guffaw.  
“Pull the other one!” he exclaimed and then hastily quietened, wary of Bisset sleeping on the other side of the house. “No, lad, I’m a bachelor through and through, you know that. I had my fun in my youth, sailing the seven seas with a girl in every port and all that tripe.” he paused to look over him warmly. “And I suddenly never had the time for a woman again. Other than our beloved Milanese Nightingale, of course.”  
“I see she’s still performing,” Tintin mused. “I’m sure she’ll appear in a Victory for the Allies concert sometime soon.”  
“And I will not be going,” Haddock replied sharply. “I’ve had enough of that blasted woman for a lifetime.”  
There it was again – their awful habit of dredging up the question of mortality. It seemed they shared a carelessness for the concept of life awarded to those who had risked life and limb and lived to tell the tale. Tintin hastily changed the subject.  
“Say, what was that Madame Bisset mentioned about your study?” he asked quickly. The Captain looked about sheepishly.  
“Oh that old bird was just joking,” he muttered. “An exaggeration one might say.”  
“Mmm,” Tintin raised his brows knowingly. “Well if its just an exaggeration then surely you wouldn’t mind showing me?” He stood up and offered his arm to the sailor. “I know it's late, but I want to have a quick look about. I hadn’t had the chance yet.”  
“You lived here, didn’t you?” the Captain seemed agitated. “Surely you can’t have forgotten.”  
“Humour me, please,” Tintin pressed. He crouched a little, lowering the crook of his arm further. “Come on, it’ll do you good to have a move about!”  
Haddock pushed himself upwards and grabbed a hold of his arm. Tintin glanced at his hands; the Captain’s fingers were beginning to gnarl and were far bonier than the ones he remembered. “Here,” he said softly and bent over to hook his other hand under the sailor’s armpit. He pulled him upright with unexpected ease and quickly smoothed over the surprise on his face.  
“I’m afraid I let myself slide after you went,” Haddock looked away. “I couldn’t see sense in going jogging round the grounds on my own or those daft exercises you used to make us do each morning. I didn’t have a reason since I’d stopped giving a good left hook to a villain once a flaming fortnight.”  
“Mm. That and a healthy helping of Loch Lomond each day I don’t doubt,” Tintin quipped. Haddock sighed. “You used to be twice the size of me,” Tintin remarked. “Maybe I’m finally catching up.” The pair began to walk slowly out of the drawing room. Haddock was unsteady on his feet and held tightly onto his friends arm. He was still taller by a head or so, but his broad shoulders had sagged and seemed much thinner than Tintin remembered.  
“Aye, you were a pint sized bruiser,” Haddock muttered. “It wasn’t hard back then to be bigger than you though, was it? Mind you, you’re no giant these days either.”  
Tintin gave his friend a teasing shove. “I’d mind yourself, Captain. I’m still rather handy with my fists.”

The pair walked slowly down the hallway, past the portraits of all the Haddocks of eras past. The night had fallen, the moon casting a soft white glow through the large windows. They passed through the moonbeams like ghosts. How many times had Tintin charged down this very same hallway, Milou at his heels, careering out to romp around the grounds or greet whatever exciting individual had arrived, Haddock snapping at him to, Bashi-bazooks, boy, slow down before you break your neck! which he always brushed off with a light hearted grin.  
They paused for a moment just before the study, looking up at a collection of canvases Tintin didn’t recognise. Nestor’s kindly face looked out of one, immortalised in oil paints.  
“Oh, Captain,” Tintin breathed. “It’s wonderful.” Haddock looked bashful and rubbed at his beard.  
“I had it done last year. He had the patience of a saint, so I thought, why not honour him like one. I think he looks rather good.” He gazed at it proudly. “God rest his soul.”  
Beside it, Tintin glanced up at three smaller portraits arranged in a triangle. In one was Haddock, his face set in a firm gaze as if he was looking out to sea. His hair and beard were still a shining black, his face still nut brown and rugged. Just below was Calculus, beaming childishly and below him, Tintin was met with his own boyish face, staring out with a confident gin.  
“Had them copied from a photograph I found,” Haddock said gruffly with a forced casual air. “My little family, or something daft and sentimental like that.” Tintin turned to look at him, eyes shining.  
“Captain Haddock,” he murmured. “Old age has made you soft.” Haddock returned a wan smile.  
“And age has made you tough, Augustin,” Haddock squeezed his shoulder. “Come on then, if you must. In here,”  
He reached for the study door, silently pushing it open with some effort. Together they moved slowly into the room and the desk light flickered on. Haddock leant heavily against the desk and motioned with his head for the younger man to look at the far wall.  
“I’ll admit, perhaps I was overzealous,” Haddock said sheepishly. “But it kept me busy.”

The wall was entirely covered with newspaper pages. Some were yellowing headlines from global papers exhibiting grinning black and white images of the pair beside some scowling crook. Some simply boasted Brussels Wonder Boy and Hero Reporter Strikes Again! in large block lettering. Others were long interviews, asking how it felt to be the first men on the moon, to be held prisoner in an Inca temple. Tintin gave a small gasp and wandered forwards eagerly. In the patchwork of text lurked his own newer pieces, detailing the stories of the trenches and the men he had met, lived and died with there. Every article seemed to house his name or his own words. Over the years, Haddock had clearly painstakingly arranged and pasted them onto the wallpaper to form a huge collage of achievements and history.  
“You’ve collected nearly every scrap I ever wrote or featured in! Great snakes, Captain, this is just crazy!”  
“Call me an old nostalgic,” Haddock moved very slowly to join him, giving small grunts of exertion. “But I could hardly sit back and twiddle my thumbs being bone idle could I?”  
“I can’t believe you kept a hold of everything,” Tintin stood staring at the wall in awe. “Some of these are decades old.”  
“I had to keep tabs,” the Captain smiled. “I’m no fool, laddie. I knew your letters were very carefully thought out, because for some reason, you seem to think no one has the right to worry about you. Perhaps you forgot you were a press superstar, or for a while at least.”  
Tintin snorted. “No one gives me a second look these days,” he told him. “I rather like it. It makes a change of being constantly scrutinised by the public eye.”  
“We had fun though, didn’t we?” Haddock gently traced the shape of the moon rocket in the photograph. “I always had the time of my life with you, Tintin. Even if you seemed hell bent on getting yourself riddled with bullets at any given chance.” His companion laughed.  
“I think the fame went to my head,” Tintin folded his arms pensively. “I really did believe I was invincible at times. The war has certainly knocked that out of me.”  
Haddock looked longingly at a page detailing their discovery of Red Rackham’s treasure. The trouble that had brought them together.  
“I look at that boy,” he said softly “And I’m not sure if he’s still here, you know.”  
It was Tintin’s turn to look away. “Sometimes I don’t know myself.” he admitted. He looked earnestly back at the Captain. “I’m sorry I didn’t come home sooner. Things have happened to me, Captain. The world is such an awful place. I didn’t want you to find me changed and resent me for it.”  
“You were hardly a child when you left here, lad,” Haddock said sagely. “I couldn’t expect, though I’d always admired you for it, that you would stay a boy forever.”  
“I miss him. I lost a lot of myself, you know. Amongst it all.”  
“I lost myself too,” Haddock replied, reaching over to squeeze his hand. “I’m sorry that I became such a sad old git in your absence. I’m ashamed.”  
“But what about the pills from Cuthbert?” Tintin asked. “I left you a sober man.” Haddock shrugged.  
“I told him to bugger off with them. Said I wanted to grow old and grey in the privacy of my own home with a glass of whatever I saw fit. I was embarrassingly nasty to him when he threatened to drug me again.”  
“Poor Cuthbert.”  
“I never took him seriously like I did with you. Him very purposefully huffing and sighing at me at the dinner table wasn’t a match for your holier-than-thou scowl.”  
“I was quite good at those, wasn’t I?”  
Tintin moved closer to the wall, looking at another picture of them with their arms round each other’s shoulders. Tintin cradled Milou in one arm, a huge beam plastered on his face. He reached out to stroke the smudged, inky face of his beloved dog and smiled.  
“He was the best of us, old Milou,” he murmured thoughtfully. Haddock nodded.  
“Hear hear. And an eternal pain in my arse, just like his master,” he replied.  
Tintin gave a laugh,“My debatably good boy.”  
Haddock watched him for a moment and then cleared his throat pointedly.  
“I mean, if you wanted to see him…” he scratched at his beard. “Where we buried him, that is...” The younger man spun around.  
“Oh, bless you, Captain,” he cried. “I knew you wouldn’t have just sent him off to the vets or done something like that.”  
Haddock looked genuinely taken aback. “What did you think I’d do with him? Send him to the glue factory? I loved that wee dog to bits – no, no, thundering typhoons, we buried him out in the grounds, near that big oak he loved to piss against.”


	2. part 2.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> part 2!  
> the queerplatonic aspect here is more obvious. tintin says:
> 
> 'fetishist,' and 'after all these years?' in french
> 
> also swears of 'bastarde' and 'bollocks' - you have been warned!

They linked arms again, half for Haddock to lean on him and half because they both felt such a glowing adoration for each other in that moment that they wanted to be closer. They made their shuffling way out of the large French windows in the dining room, across the terrace and towards the edge of the estate.  
“He’d run me ragged round here,” Haddock explained. “I’m sure my flowerbeds are still full of his toys. No one round here is in any state to go digging through them on their hands and knees.”  
“I remember you wrote to me about him falling down a badger hole or something,” Tintin stifled a laugh. “And that you and Calculus had to fashion a little bungee cord to pull him out.” Haddock roared with laughter.  
“I remember! He was such a grumpy wee bastard after that – he wouldn’t go outside for days. He’d just sit misering on the hearth rug, whimpering at me like I was the one that bloody pushed him in.”  
They both laughed again. The large oak tree that stood to the far left of the châteaux loomed ahead of them, dyed an inky midnight blue in the dark. At the foot of it was a small granite headstone, with _Milou – 1927-1942_ engraved in neat white lettering. Tintin knelt beside the stone, his hand resting on the top of it.  
“What do you look so startled for!” Haddock exclaimed. “Did you misremember me as a miser or something? Of course I’d make sure he left something suitable behind.”  
Tintin tenderly patted the grass beneath the stone. “I really wish you were here to see me,” He sighed quietly and reached his head towards the earth. “I’m glad I didn’t have to see you through in your final days. Maybe it was better for both of us like this. I know the Captain would have looked after you.”  
“He was Lord of the manor, I promise,” Haddock assured him. “Though I’m afraid Moulinsart is a little like a mausoleum these days. I wish it could have been more cheerful. This is the price you pay for surrounding yourself with old men, my lad. There’s more dead than alive.”  
“Oh hush,” Tintin rolled his eyes and stood up, brushing his knees. “Don’t be so morbid. Time doesn’t stop for anyone. Not even the hero of Le Petit Vingtième” he gave the Captain another playful shove. They stood listening to the wind in the trees, watching the moonlight bounce off the glimmering leaves, arms linked tightly again. Haddock pulled his thick housecoat around him tighter but Tintin welcomed the cold breeze ruffling his shirt. The beginnings of an autumn chill was lacing the wind.  
“I missed you, so much. I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner.”  
“And I missed you too, lad. Not obvious, is it?”  
“Just a little perhaps.”

A shared smile. A pause.

“I loved you, you know, back then,” An awkward clearing of the throat. “I love you now, of course, but it… it was a different kind back then.”  
A pause. “I think I know what you mean.”  
“I would have died for you. I think it was what made me so reckless. I was intoxicated with the idea of having something to lose other than Milou. It made me feel so alive.” Tintin stamped his feet to keep out the cold.  
The moon watched on.  
“Did you love me?”  
“I tried to die for you, didn’t I? Couldn’t you tell?”  
“Sometimes I’d catch you looking at me so seriously. Like you were trying to figure me out.”  
“You were an enigma, you still are! You drove me mad. You had such a heat seeker for danger and it scared me senseless.”  
A laugh. “Well, you weren’t ever one to play it safe yourself.”  
“You brought the best and worst out in me.”  
“Do you think we could have made it? Before all this; could we have made it?”  
“Maybe. Though I’m old enough to be your bloody father.”  
“You’re right. People would have talked.”  
“Maybe. I did almost kiss you once, though.”  
“Really?”  
“Do you remember New Years Eve, 1936?”  
“In parts… shamefully.”  
“We were stood watching the fireworks over Brussels in the distance. I’d got duped into throwing that big party and we’d gone out to get some air, I think. I remember you’d grabbed my hand and thinking it was strangely touching, thought you’d just got overexcited.”  
“We’ve always been tactile like that, though.”  
“I know, I know. I just remember being touched by it. And I looked over at you and your face was flashing all pink and gold and red from the fireworks and you looked so handsome. I had to stop myself.”  
“I wouldn’t have minded at all.”  
“I’m still glad I didn’t.”  
“Why?”  
“Because it means that we never had to go through all those poxy ‘what ifs’. We simply passed that moment by and carried on as we were,” Haddock murmured. “After all this mess, years later, you still came home to me, a wretched sailor who’s drank himself to death. It meant I never had to lose you in the complications, though God knows I don’t deserve to keep you.”  
Tintin exhaled shakily. “You scare me, Archibald.” he whispered. “What have you done to yourself?”  
“Only what I deserved,” the Captain replied. “In my heart of hearts, I didn’t think you’d come back. And I drank myself away so I didn’t have to think about the fact that I might have to bury you one day.”  
“But I’m here.”  
“I know!” Haddock cried. “I know. I’m an old fool.”  
“If we’re being honest,” Tintin said carefully after a moment. He hastily wiped his cheek. “Please don’t sugar coat it for me – how long exactly have you got?”  
Haddock shifted on the spot. “The doctor says a month at most,” he said finally. “Says I’m not worth a transplant or anything new-fangled like that. I’ve thoroughly pickled myself.”  
Tintin let out a groan. “ _Bastarde_. You stupid, stupid old man.”  
“Don’t mince your words, then.”  
“Why should I?” the younger man flashed. “You lived over half your life without me, why couldn’t you cope when I left? You don’t realise the pressure that puts on me.”  
“Because you saved me, from myself,” Haddock blurted. “I was always terrible like this. You just gave me reasons not to be. I didn’t know how to live on my own any more.”  
“So it was my responsibility, was it?” Tintin rarely shouted. “Just like it was my job to risk life and limb in the depths of space just because you couldn’t stop drinking for a few days?”  
Haddock said nothing and looked away.  
“I never asked to be your saviour.”  
Silence.  
The younger man’s voice took on a low, razor sharp edge. “After all these years, after all I’ve seen and done, and you expect me to come here and take the blame for you killing yourself?”  
“I...”  
“I’ve seen far too much, Captain. I held a man whilst he lay dying, right in my arms. And all he did was whimper like a babe for his mother-” his voice gave a painful crack and he placed his shaking hand to his eyes. Haddock reached to put a hand on his shoulder but he swiftly moved. “Don’t you dare blame your shortcomings on me. Don’t you even try to make this my fault, Captain, you put far too much on me...” He glanced up at the sky, wind rustling through his hair. “I just wanted you to be safe, whether I was there or not.”  
“I’m sorry…”  
“You knew I was alive. You clearly kept a track of my escapades, and what about my letters?”  
“Few and far between as they were!” Haddock shot back. Tintin flinched. “I drove myself silly, waiting for the next one, seeing whether it would arrive or not. I kept thinking each article might be your last one, that the next one would report you having been caught in the crossfire and I’d get an awful telegram telling me they were shipping you back to me in a box.”  
“Captain-”  
“I got stuck in this terrible cycle,” Haddock was on the rampage now. “Waiting to hear from you, drinking myself prostrate. Then getting your letter, knowing it was probably a pack of lies to spare an old man a bit of grief. Wishing I could be better for you. Then turning back to the drink in my guilt. By the time the war was over I’d already nailed myself into the coffin. What a shame whiskies are such fatal just-in-cases.”  
“I knew you’d be worrying, I just didn’t want to add to it all or make it worse,” Tintin snapped. “And you kept your miserable business from me too!” Haddock stumbled away from him. He flexed his fists, pacing shakily up and down and muttering profanities.  
“What a load of bollocks,” he grunted. “What a pair of fools!”  
Tintin sighed, running his hands over his face. He still loved him so, but frustration was welling at the Captain’s weakness. He grieved for the man who had given up on his own life, waiting for him to come back.  
“I didn’t want to worry you, you didn’t want to worry me! I drank because I knew you were lying. You lied to stop me drinking. What a fine mess this dishonesty has got us into.” Haddock grimaced, rubbing at his chest with his fist. His voice was thick and rasping. “Christ, I always knew you’d be the death of me, Tintin.”  
“Please, Captain, stop this,” Tintin whispered, shaking his head desperately. “I don’t want to hear any more. You’ll just upset yourself and make yourself sicker. You can’t pin this all on me. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to shout, didn’t we promise a few hours ago not to fall out?”  
“You make it so hard, lad!” the old man cried. “We make it too hard! That’s always been our problem; both too hot headed, both too eager to throw ourselves under the bus for someone else.”  
“We’ve always had our scraps,” Tintin approached him with a tone of finality. “So let’s not waste any more time arguing, alright? Let’s draw a line under this.”  
Haddock began to cough, a rasping wet gurgle from the depths of his chest. Tintin moved to take his arm but he waved him away irately. He looked so frail, so aged. His shoulders heaving, his face crumpled into a spiderweb of wrinkled skin. He swallowed labouringly.  
“Do you see me now? How I really am?” Haddock asked in a low voice. “I was always like this, really, you just thought too much of me. That moment, out there in space, that’s the closest you ever got to seeing the real man. You never saw the sad old wreck underneath, always tempted to end it all.”  
“I don’t see one now,” the other replied. “I see a man who loved his friends far too fiercely for his own good.” Haddock stared at him through the shadows. The wildness of both their expressions hung fervently in the air. Tintin’s face and base of his throat was flushed, his eyes shining in the moonlight. Haddock felt this was probably how a crook felt just before Tintin landed a sucker punch on his jaw.  
“...I’m sorry, lad” Haddock said finally. “I just… you infuriate me sometimes. You’re too good to the point of absurdity.” You’re too good; the words echoed, the same ones Haddock had hurled at him six years prior. The Captain let his friend move to loop his arm around his back, holding him upright and easing the weight on his wobbling legs. He wiped at his nose and mouth with his handkerchief.  
“I’m not the only infuriating one,” Tintin said dryly. “We shouldn’t waste our time like this, arguing over how we got here and hurting each other. Aren’t there are far more pressing matters?”  
“We care too much, is all,” the Captain grimaced. “What a lousy affliction.”  
“All is fair in love and war,” the younger man said with a small wry smile. “Perhaps we toe that line too closely.”  
They looked at each other for a moment, exchanging earnest glances.  
“I just want to spend as long as I’ve got with you,” Haddock said quietly. “Just like the old times. Just us.”  
“You can. I’m not going anywhere.”  
They began to move back towards the house, feeling the night’s chill settling in their bones.  
“I’m glad I have no neighbours,” Haddock muttered as they shuffled inside the doors. He stood rubbing his shoulders to warm up as his companion locked up. “What a sight, an old cripple and an overgrown urchin having a slanging match in the early hours.”  
“I’m sure it won’t have been the strangest thing that’s happened lately,” Tintin said a little bitterly. He watched Haddock stifle a yawn. “Surely it’s far too late for you?” He was tired now, the emotional exchange had left him feeling drained. He’d been shedding tears like sweat today. His mind was aching.  
“And I want to play chess with you,” Haddock conveniently ignored him. Tintin gave him an indulgent nod and steered the Captain towards the master bedroom.  
“I mean, you know what Cuthbert’s like, off like a magpie at the sight of something for more interesting. Nestor was an excellent opponent, but Margie couldn’t play tiddlywinks if her life depended on it.”  
“I’m sure we can, Captain.”  
“And I want you to read to me – In French that is. I’ve got a nice copy of Les Mis somewhere.”  
“What would be the point in that? You wouldn’t understand it.” They entered the master bedroom. Tintin began to turn the Captain’s bed sheets down as the other continued to babble on.  
“I like to hear your French, it’s calming. You were always prattling away to yourself in tongues when you were younger. You sound so English these days.”  
“ _Fétichiste_ ,” he teased “ _Après toutes ces années_?”  
“See. Just lovely.” Tintin gently guided him to the bed, easing him down and tucking the thick duvet in around him.  
“I could have just called you an aged goat. You wouldn’t have known.”  
“Well, I don’t care as long as it sounds nice. And I need to go through my will.”  
“Your will? Come now Captain, let’s leave it until the morning.”  
“It all goes to you. That’s what it says,” Haddock told him eagerly. “‘ I hereby leave the entirety of my estate to Monsieur Augustin Remi.’ So you can keep on living here or sell it or do what you wish. You’ll inherit old Cuthbert of course. Though I fear he’ll soon be joining our merry roster of Moulinsart ghosts. And make sure you’re good to Margie. She’s a nosy old bat but you’ll fail to find someone sweeter-”  
“Captain!” Tintin bit back a laugh of disbelief. “Settle down. All this can wait. I’m sure for something as important as discussing a will, pyjamas are not appropriate.”  
He fussed around him for a moment and once satisfied the older man was duly ready for bed, he reached to switch off the bedside lamp.  
“Wait,” Haddock grabbed a hold of his wrist. “Please don’t go just yet. Won’t you just sit a while?”  
Tintin blinked at him “Well, I...”  
“We don’t have to talk! I just want to know that you’re there. I’ve spent so long thinking about this day. When I’d see you again. Don’t let it be over just yet.”  
“Alright, Captain,” Tintin dutifully brought the chair from the desk over and sat beside the bed. “I’ll stay a while longer.”  
“Thank you.” The Captain smiled up at him. “Good night, lad.”  
“Bonne nuit, Captain.”  
Bisset found him loyally curled into the chair the following morning, head tucked into his knees, sound asleep.

The following fortnight passed them by like a dream. They played endless games of chess out on the patio, wrapped in blankets whilst Bisset brought them cup after cup of strong sweet tea. Calculus arrived home and clung to Tintin, braying most excitedly. He was even more deaf those days and muttered nonsense more often than anything coherent. The Captain later told him confidentially the old professor was ‘losing a screw every other day.’ which Tintin had chuckled at. They dined together most evenings, though the Captain ate like a sparrow, with Tintin sitting in the middle as an acting translator as one old man burbled gobbledygook and the other cursed under his breath. He felt so warm and light amongst his old companions. The world had turned upside down and inside out but here he was, still at Moulinsart in the midst of constant bedlam. Many times he offered to drive the Captain into the city for one last visit but the latter refused, preferring to spend his day pottering round his own estate. They took several turns each morning, sometimes with arms linked or sometimes with Haddock leaning on his new cane. When he finally lost the strength to walk, Tintin would wheel him out in his chair and push him devotedly over the turf until the Captain had had enough. They made slow progress through Victor Hugo most afternoons, with the Captain irately asking for a plot recap at the end of each chapter.  
“This would be a lot easier for you if I read it in English, you know.” Tintin had quipped.  
“Oh, do be quiet, or I’ll swipe your inheritance. Let an old man have his culture.”

The tension had gone, the bickering and wounding forgotten. Tintin and Bisset helped the Captain sort through his belongings, boxing things to be sold at market, or donated, or simply thrown away. Tintin had squirrelled one of the Captain’s thick roll necked jumpers away whilst they catalogued his wardrobe. He tugged it on in the evenings after he’d seen the Captain to bed, and took to prowling the surrounding country lanes into the early hours, trying to empty his buzzing mind and breathing in the warm scent of scotch, tobacco and sea salt that resided in the wool.  
The will had been signed, the house purged and tidied. Every part of the estate had been suitably recorded and sorted in mountains of paperwork. The car had been sold when Tintin declined it, as had a lot of the furniture.  
“Mahogany is out of fashion, didn’t you hear?” he’d protested a little too brightly.  
The truth was he couldn’t bear the thought of being surrounded by so much of his past. Though he kept a brave and cheerful face on for Bisset, Cuthbert and Haddock, he often took himself to weep angrily in a moment of solitude. Death never seemed to become any easier to him.

The reaper came to Moulinsart one particularly fine Autumn morning.  
The sky was a pale blue and cloudless. Haddock could see the golden leaves fluttering about from his bedroom window and smiled to himself. He sat in bed, Margie having plumped as many pillows around him as seemed humanely possibly. His morning cup of tea sat untouched and stone cold beside him. Tintin was perched on the end of the bed looking agitated. He kept tapping his feet on the parquet flooring and looking away. Neither of them had said anything but they knew time was running out.  
“It’s alright,” Haddock reached for his hand. “You’ll be alright, I promise.”  
“I know,” Tintin gave him a tearful smile. “But it doesn’t make it any easier.”  
“No more of the escapades of Jean Valjean,” Haddock said. “Isn’t that a reason to be cheerful?” Tintin laughed a little too boisterously and Haddock gave him a wan smile. “Can you move some of these infernal pillows, I’d like to lie down. Margie clearly wanted to smother me and get it all over with.” Wordlessly, Tintin rearranged the top of the bed, easing the old man onto his back.  
“Comfortable?” his voice kept catching and jumping.  
“Aye,” Haddock nodded slowly. “I think I’d be ready now, if I had to be.”  
Tintin pressed his lips together and reached for the Captain’s hand again. He clung onto it tightly.  
“That’s okay,” he said softly. “You can go if you want. I’m not going anywhere.”  
“I know,” the other replied. They sat in silence, listening to the birds outside. Everything was so still, reaching out endlessly. Tintin cleared his throat, the lump threatening to choke him. He wasn’t ready yet.  
“I love you, Captain, you know that, don’t you? You are my dearest friend.”  
Silence.  
“You came home.” The voice sounded so very quiet, so very far away.  
“Because I love you, you old fool.”  
A wheezing laugh. A labouring cough.  
“It’s alright, Captain. You can go now.”  
“My boy came home to me.”  
“He did. He’s right here, waiting with you. He understands.”  
“I love him so much. He came home to me.”

  
Tintin squeezed the hand in his lap tightly, his knuckles whitening and trembling. “I know.” he said softly. “I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> i appreciate a lot of a characterisation feels a lil off but i tried to imagine how an aged, jaded tintin who resents the world for taking his innocence from him and a self-loathing, disenfranchised haddock would interact after so many years apart.


End file.
